Brave New
by RobinRocks
Summary: USUK, Cardverse. The ravens gather at the blue windows in the dusk. Alfred has a birthday present for him but it stays nestled in his pocket, worn and creased. This year, same as always, he can't bring himself to hand it over.
1. I

Mini Cardverse-y thing in two parts for Arthur Kirkland's birthday, 23rd April - which is, of course, St George's Day, the patron saint of England. Apparently nobody but Google and the _Hetalia_ fandom celebrate. XD

Brave New

Alfred is coming home today.

Arthur has his last letter under his pillow, worn soft beneath restless cotton. The ink is almost tattooed beneath his fingertips because sometimes he sleeps with his hand on the date: April 23rd. Oddly specific – for Alfred, at least, who tends to be wishy-washy about these sorts of things. 'In a month or so,' he'll say, or 'As soon as I can'. Arthur understands. It's difficult for him to get away, what with so much weight resting on those shoulders. The war won't win itself, after all.

Still, he wonders at the date: so precise, so deliberate, most unlike his scatterbrained king. He hopes he remembers, in fact – it wouldn't be the first time. Lucky that his head is firmly attached and so forth. How he manages without Arthur is a mystery.

Still, today – as long as he remembers – he won't have to manage. He'll come home and they'll be together and their tiny perfect kingdom will be complete.

* * *

Arthur lies on the grass amongst the ravens. There are thirty-six in total, although they come and go, and today no less than fifteen bask in his company. They like him, these glossy hunched brutes, and he them. He likes their oily shuffling, the hard creak of their throats. _Bad luck, old boy, _he thinks whenever one opens its wings and spirals away over the walls.

(_Wait for me,_ he also thinks – sometimes, fleeting, quickly crushed. Foolish, selfish, tantamount to treason. He knows he cannot leave. If he does, the kingdom will fall.)

An official in hard blue wool approaches. He's a young man, dark-haired, with a neat moustache and a sheen of sweat. It's much too warm for wool but how can he argue when they all have those gold-thread spades embroidered proudly over their hearts?

"Your Majesty." A bow. "His Highness the King of Spades is approaching Traitor's Gate. Will you come to meet him or shall I inform him that you are on the green?"

"I will come." Arthur rises, unsettling the ravens skulking close by. He smoothes down his coat, straightens out the silk bow at his collar, not that it matters much. They'll be rumpled again soon enough.

"We must look into renaming that gate," he muses, clicking along next to the official. "It seems so unfitting to welcome the king through a gate intended for traitors, don't you think?"

"Of course, Your Majesty."

"I'd ask why it's called such a thing," Arthur goes on, "but I suppose that's a silly question." A pause. "I mean, I don't suppose you'd know."

"Of course not, Your Majesty."

Arthur looks up at the clear blue sky stretching over the walls. A raven circles overhead, gleaming in the sun. A fine way to run a kingdom, this: names and dates and eyes scratched out.

They join a scattering of other officials at the jagged stone stairwell descending to the waterline. The guards are well-practiced in opening the ancient gate by now and the warped old wood begins its glimmering ascent, lifting out of the water to admit the boat. A few ravens croak curiously over the noise, flapping away when the nose of the boat hits the bottom step with a thick _thud_. Alfred, in his familiar sky-blue, stands up as the officials flock to moor it, stepping neatly through them. He makes his way up the stairs, his eyes focused only on Arthur, who awaits him at the top.

"My queen." He takes Arthur's hands into his, bringing them to his lips. "How I've missed you."

"My king." Arthur smiles, dips his head. "As have I."

What hangs between them is _how I wish I could go with you beyond these walls_; but Alfred never offers and Arthur never asks.

Arthur takes his hand and pulls at him, hauling him away from the boat and the stairs and the gate. The sun blazes over the crumbling towers and lush greens of their small kingdom, dappling through the twisted boughs of ancient trees. The ravens cluster in the shade of them, watching.

"I confess I was worried that you would forget," Arthur says, only half-playful. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"I know." Alfred grins, unapologetic. "But how could I forget today?"

"What's today?"

"Your birthday, of course!"

Arthur turns to him, surprised. "...Is it?"

"Sure is." Alfred laughs. "Old age catching up with you? Imagine forgetting your own birthday!"

Now Arthur laughs too, though it's a touch uneasier. "I thought it seemed very specific," he says. "For you. And... a little familiar, also, I'll admit."

Alfred gathers him in, holding him close. "Whatever am I going to do with you?" he hums next to Arthur's ear.

"I don't know." Arthur rests his cheek on Alfred's shoulder, breathing him in. He has the familiar scent of leather and something bitter, unplaceable. "I suppose I wouldn't be much good to you anyway, even if I could leave the kingdom."

"Not if you go forgetting your own birthday," Alfred agrees. "But it's alright. I have enough soldiers. Having you to come home to is worth more to me."

Arthur squeezes him. "If only those wretched Clubs knew what was good for them."

"It's fine, I'll sort 'em out," Alfred trills. "Told those Hearts where to get off, didn't I?"

"You certainly did." Arthur pulls away from him. "Would you come to the chapel with me?"

"Anything, as it's your birthday."

"Idiot." Arthur smiles affectionately. "You'd do anything for me any time."

Alfred wraps an arm about his queen's waist. "Of course I would. Anything to keep you happy, Arthur – anything at all."

The chapel is barely that; it used to be, before it was gutted by the fire that nobody recalls. All of the tombs within are defaced, the names and years scratched out with venom, the finely-chiselled death masks smashed. Nature has begun to reclaim the windows and floor, bursting green and floral through the cracks. Arthur pulls away from Alfred, picking his careful way down the aisle.

"Is this where we were married?" he asks.

"I don't know," Alfred replies. "I don't remember."

"Neither do I." Arthur bends near the remains of the altar, lifting up a straight piece of wood with another, shorter bar coming off at a right angle. The remains of a thin, carved figure swing from a rusted nail at the bottom. "It seems a shame, don't you think?" he says, turning the object this way and that. "That nobody remembers what tragedy has befallen us or the reason I cannot go beyond these walls."

"Yes," Alfred agrees quietly. "To destroy all traces of our history... it does seem a waste."

"Hmm." Arthur drops the broken object without ceremony. "Still, I suppose it doesn't matter. When you win the war, I'll be able to leave and see the world outside once more. I... can't even remember what it looks like."

"It's not very beautiful," Alfred says. "Not at the moment. But it will be, Arthur. When I've won, it will be rebuilt as a utopia. I won't be ashamed to show it to you then."

"Fool." Arthur comes back to him, catching up his hands. "You don't have be ashamed of anything."

He kisses him, allowing him to take the lead. Alfred is a clumsy and demanding kisser, dominating, desperate. He kisses like he's sorry for every word he says.

"No," Arthur whispers, pulling back, resting their foreheads together, "not in front of me."

* * *

The ravens gather at the blue windows in the dusk. Alfred has a birthday present for him but it stays nestled in his pocket, worn and creased. This year, same as always, he can't bring himself to hand it over.

Instead he makes a gift of his skin and sweat. They've been apart so long that that's all Arthur really wants, to climb over him with nails and teeth. The truth is that Alfred does remember the fire. He remembers how yellow Arthur's hair was that night, how green his eyes. That was creation; if he cannot love his as a queen then he must worship him as a deity. He kisses over every heaving bone in his body, _I love you, forgive me, please forgive me._

He wails his name, too, into his shoulder, caught up in the hangings – sticky, glimmering, _Arthur_, the name of a king, not a queen–

But really, really, he wants to cry God for England.

(_Who is Shakespeare?_ It's not worth the risk.)

* * *

Also it's Shakespeare's birthday. And deathday. Obligatory mention, title and all.

Second half soon! :3


	2. II

I'm impressed with me! Look how quickly I managed to post this. Usually when I say 'Second part soon!' it's like three months later, haha. XD

Thanks to: **natcat5, xXpikoLoverXx, Winter-Grown-Lily, nuclear taste, charli petidei, suzako, AEngland, vc103221 **and a **Guest**!

**natcat5 **called me out almost immediately in her review, haha. I'm too transparent. XD

Brave New

II

_America sees the smoke rising over the walls, aglow behind the White Tower, a deep grey-orange haze hanging low over the Thames. He urges them to row faster but he knows he's too late._

_He should have known._

_He scrambles up the steps before the boat is even moored, pounding breathlessly over the cobbles and across the green. Many heads have rolled here, it's true, but as he understands it this wasn't always a prison. It used to be a palace._

_The tiny Medieval chapel at the tower's heart, St Peter ad Vincula, is ablaze, spitting scarlet in the night. The guards (Beefeaters, something like that?) flurry to quell it, running with black buckets, but it's clear that the damage is done. America looks instead for England, finding him standing back, quite contented with his handiwork. His yellow hair is like a flagrant halo, brightly burning at his edges. He's still wearing the scrappy khaki uniform from the day he was captured._

_"England." America barks his name; England looks lazily at him, his green eyes piercing. "Why? Why would you do this?"_

_"So you can't have it." England shrugs. "Obviously. I'll set the whole place alight if I have to."_

_"What, the whole tower? London?"_

_"The entire fucking country. You think I won't?" But there doesn't seem to be much conviction in it. England yawns. "It's my own fault, really, isn't it? I should have drowned you the day I set eyes on you."_

_"So you could bow to Russia instead?" America snorts in disgust. "I put you here to keep you safe. You know that."_

_"Do I?" England shrugs. "No, I think you can drop the 'safe' part. To keep me. Isn't that right..." A smirk. "Mr Fifty-Four?"_

_America glowers. "I never said you were a state–"_

_"You don't need to. It speaks for itself – as do my actions. O, for a muse of fire! ...I'd rather you had only a handful of ash."_

_"I don't care about any of that," America argues. "I'm not an Empire like you. I don't want glory or riches. All I want is peace. Can't you understand?"_

_"Forgive me for not seeing things quite as you do. My eyes are not stained red. Rose-tinted, perhaps?" England tilts his head. "'Tis the time's plague when madmen lead the blind."_

_"England. Please. I'm not mad. I'm not evil." America takes a desperate step towards England, who doesn't flinch the way others do. "I just want to create a world where everyone can be happy."_

_England only grins at him. "O brave new world," he says gleefully, "that has such people in it."_

* * *

"Are you sneaking out on me, Alfred?"

America, knotting his tie, turns towards him. England is stretched out beneath the sheets, his cheek propped on his knuckles, watching him dress with a sleepy smile. His hair is wild from the night before.

"Not _sneaking_ out," America replies reproachfully. "I was gonna wake you before I went."

"Hm." England drops back to the pillow with a sigh. "Must you go so soon? You've stayed barely a day."

"I'm sorry. I have to go back." America sits on the edge of the bed. "I shouldn't have come in the first place, really. To be honest, I... just sort of came without telling anyone. They'll be wondering where I am."

"You're with your queen where you belong," England says teasingly, trailing his fingers up America's arm.

"Arthur..."

"I know." England takes his hand back rather abruptly. "...I know. Just... hurry up and win the bleeding thing soon, won't you? I get lonely here all by myself."

"You have the ravens for company," America teases.

"I'm quite certain they're only in it for the food." Now England sits up. "Alfred. Please. I'm tired of waiting."

"I know." America leans in and kisses him hard. "Soon, okay?" He rubs his thumb over England's cheek. "But right now I need you here – to protect our kingdom."

England puts his hand atop Alfred's, holding it against his skin. He closes his eyes. "I'm sorry," he mutters. "I don't mean to be selfish. I just miss you."

"You're not selfish," America whispers. "You're not. I... I am, aren't I? Keeping you locked up here, all for myself."

"Heh." England nuzzles into his neck. "It doesn't sound so bad when you put it like that."

America holds him close a moment longer. He doesn't trust himself to speak. At length he pulls away, prying himself loose.

"I have to go," he says. "I really do, I..."

"It's alright. Go. The world is waiting for you." England smiles. "Just don't forget that so am I."

_("Who is Shakespeare? Alfred, I can't get the name out of my head."_

"_Nobody, my queen. Go back to sleep.")_

* * *

The morning is cold and damp. America can hear the ravens screeching over the rumble of the river, the boat rocking as they make the crossing. The remains of London yawn before them out of the mist, bleak broken fingers grasping toward the sky. Thank god for the walls, he thinks, so that England cannot see.

He takes from his pocket the gift he hasn't got the heart or guts to part with: a battered Queen of Spades, worn around the edges, missing a corner. She's seen too much. Maybe he's afraid she'll talk. It'll all be out then. England will know.

A sudden gust pulls her from his fingers, sending her scattering away across the river. He takes a last glimpse of her promise, written over her back in England's June-'44-scrawl, as she goes spiralling away. His heart sinks. He feels relieved.

The car is at the shore, waiting. It's not even a car, it's an armoured Jeep with the Stars and Stripes painted on the door. His uniform and bomber jacket are folded up on the back seat.

"Sir." The driver, a lieutenant, salutes him. "Straight to base? The plane is on stand-by."

"No." America opens the door and slides into the seat. "Downing Street. I want to see our old friend Mr Churchill."

"Of course, sir."

He watches the exposed ribcage of London graze by the window; the shattered dome of St Paul's Cathedral, the whisper of Whitehall. Big Ben is nothing but a crumbling tower a mere third of its original height, surrounded by shattered glass.

The Germans bombed London for six years and didn't even come close to the kind of damage America and his forces wrought in a single week.

Looking at it doesn't bring him any pleasure, of course. He didn't do it because he wanted to.

Downing Street is little more than a sea of rubble. Churchill operates from the old War Cabinet Rooms buried far beneath the pavement, which is rather fitting. America, who hasn't bothered to change out of his King of Spades costume, lets himself in without much ceremony, heading straight for Churchill's office. He doesn't knock.

"Good morning." Churchill doesn't seem all that surprised at his sudden entrance, although he does raise an eyebrow at his clothing. "I wasn't aware that you were here."

"Thought I'd drop in on England," America replies, flopping into the chair opposite Churchill's desk. "Check he's still alive."

"You could have telephoned and I would have told you that."

America shrugs. "Wanted to see it for myself. I... I do care about him, you know. I want him to be safe."

"I'm sure." Churchill points at the blue coat with his cigar. "This is all part of it, of course?"

"If you mean to ask if he's still buying the whole 'playing card kingdoms' thing, then yes. Stronger than ever, in fact."

"Extraordinary. Really it is. He was always such a sensible chap before, too." Churchill leans back in his chair. "Still, I suppose we can't judge him too harshly. The poor devil's completely lost his mind. Watching your country turn to dust will do that to you, I expect."

"Doesn't seem to have had much of an effect on you, sir," America points out.

"I'm different," Churchill says. "I'll fight until there's nothing left."

"There _will_ be something left," America says. "There will. We're so close to winning. Almost the entire map is under my control. We took China in April. Now we just have to push Russia all the way back and destroy him and then–"

"Your conquest of the world will be complete, Mr United States." Churchill says it with a cold smile. "You are on the verge of becoming what you so detest."

"An empire?" America gives a disgusted snort. "I hardly think you can call my noble vision of a new world, rebuilt without the scourge of Communism, an 'empire'. I'm not doing it for personal gain."

"Of course not, not at your age. You're far too young. All you want is to change the world and you're not afraid to dirty your hands to do it. I admire that."

"I know." America smiles warmly at him. "I'm glad I had an ally in you in 1946. England wouldn't listen to me."

"He wouldn't listen to me, either – he or Attlee. I had always maintained that I wouldn't stop with Germany's defeat, not with the threat of Russian Communism looming beyond Berlin. But the people had done enough, England complained. They were tired and so was he. They just wanted peace, even at that cost."

"At least he was civil to you," America grumbles. "He called me allsorts: insane, paranoid, power-mad. It really hurt, coming from him. I always thought he'd support me in this."

"I'm surprised he was so resistant," Churchill admits. "He's hated Communism for as long as I've known him. Usually spoiling for a fight, too."

"I guess maybe he _was_ just tired." America shrugs. "Well, now he can rest all he needs. In a way, it's a good thing he completely lost it. He's so much calmer now, way easier to handle. He doesn't even realise he's a prisoner."

Churchill shrugs. "We've no use for him if he's not with us," he says carelessly. "Besides, this is no longer Great Britain. This is Fifty-Four. If he can't accept that then he might as well stay where he is."

America squirms in his seat. "I really don't mind if you guys still want to call yourselves 'British'," he says. "Contrary to what England thinks, I'm not trying to wipe out your history – only trying to preserve your future."

"Might as well do the thing properly, though, eh? If we're doing it at all, I mean."

"...I guess." America frowns at him. "You, of all people, Mr Churchill... I'm surprised you took so well to it. I thought you might reject becoming a state, at least initially. A lot of the others did."

"I told you, I am different. I will sacrifice everything for a victory."

"Even England."

"Especially him."

"That's what did it, you know. That's what sent him over the edge. I always thought it was me, that he was disappointed, but I guess he probably expected it. He did raise me, after all. It was you that really did it – you, his beloved, trusted wartime leader. You betrayed him."

"I did," Churchill agrees. "For his own good. Better to play queen to you in the Tower than to be devoured from within by the cancer of Communism."

"I know. I don't regret it. Even when I look at him, knowing that he doesn't remember an entire lifetime spent outside those walls, I don't regret it. I know he's safe – as we all will be very soon. The lies are worth it."

"Poor England," Churchill says heartlessly. "We were both willing to give him up in a heartbeat. That is quite the fall from grace."

America shrugs. "Perhaps we're the fallen ones," he says. "The sort who will do whatever it takes. The world is full of people like us."

_O, brave new world that has such people in it! World, world, O world!_

"We are not clever or kind, good or bad. We simply are. Man or nation, all we want to do is survive. That is happiness." America feels in his pocket for something that isn't there. "That's why I lie. I want him to be happy. I don't want him to see."

* * *

("Hey, England?"

"Hm?"

"What's your happiest memory?"

"What, ever?"

"No, no. Of... well, back then." America knots his fingers together. "You know. Raising me."

England looks at him in the mirror with amusement. He wipes off his foamy razor on his towel, thoughtful. He still uses the old kind of blade, a long silver Victorian one that flips out like a weapon; America can't believe how steady his hand is on a day like this when they're waiting, waiting. Early June, 1944, and they're living out of crates. Any day now.

"My dear, I sincerely hope the world revolves around you one day," England says. "You seem to be in the mindset for it already."

"Jeez, it was just a question!" America flops sulkily across a crate of supplies. "You forget – you've lived for centuries without me. I don't remember much of anything without you in it. If the world revolves around anybody, it's you."

"Such a whorish empire I am," England says boredly, going back to his shaving.

"Maybe I meant _my_ world," America grumbles. He puts his arms behind his head, squinting up at the bleached blue of English summer sky. "...You want to know mine?"

"Certainly."

"When we used to play with cards. I don't know if you even remember the playing card kingdoms. Hearts, Clubs, Diamonds and Spades. We used to spend hours under the stars making up lies about their histories."

"I'm astounded that you remember that," England says. "You were very small. It was before I had the money to bring you proper books and toys. I always thought you liked those soldiers I made you best – or the book of collected Shakespeare–."

"I loved them – but I loved our invented kingdoms more. That's when I realised that you can create the world you want."

"And you've already done that," England says. He puts down his razor. "United States. New world–"

"Brave of me, wasn't it?" America grins.

England rolls his eyes. "I know you liked that Shakespeare book. You can lie all you want."

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, check it out." America fishes inside the pocket of his bomber jacket, pulling out a battered playing card.

"What the hell is that?"

"The source of all my power."

"Looks like the Queen of bloody Spades to me." England stands up, pulling on his shirt. He tends to lose interest in America's prattling very quickly these days.

"Sure is. She's my favourite." America holds her up over his head, smiling. "Of our stories, I mean. She's pretty tragic. The King of Spades is out fighting a war against the Clubs but poor Queenie can't leave their kingdom because if she does–"

"The kingdom will fall," England finishes. "Yes, I remember. I suppose I should confess that I pinched that from the lore of the Tower of London. Legend says that if the ravens in the Tower all fly away, Britain will fall."

"Is it true?"

"I don't know. I'm still standing either way – and if Germany's bombing can't shift the buggers, I don't suppose anything can."

America pouts. "I didn't know you stole it," he complains. "I always thought that tragedy was the best part about the Queen of Spades."

"Sorry, love. I'm not that original." England takes a pen from the top of his pack. "Give her here."

"Why?" America asks dubiously.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to deface her."

America hands her over, watching England scribble something on the red Rococo back. When he gets it back, England capping his pen, he sees what he's written:

_O brave new world that has such people in it!_

"For luck," England says. "We're on the edge of a new world yet again. At the order we go up its shores and into its heart – to take apart the world that Germany has created.")

* * *

_America gets used to him like this. He briefs the guards, supplies the costumes, builds up the bricks of their universe. He hasn't seen England smile like this since those nights under the stars when he was very small. He calls him Arthur, takes Alfred for himself: two English kings shrouded by myth, as ethereal as ravens on the Tower walls._

_Shakespeare never wrote about either._

* * *

Surprise!canon! Or not-so-surprise, haha, I pull this shit quite a lot, tbh. Or America does, anyway.

A heavy Shakespeare theme given that 23rd April is not only England's "birthday" (St George's Day) but also Shakespeare's birthday/deathday. Three plays are quoted over the course of this story: _The Tempest_ ('O brave new world, that has such people in't!'), _Henry V _('Cry God for England' (though this is truncated)/'O, for a muse of fire') and _King Lear_ ('World, world, O world'/'Tis the time's plague when madmen lead the blind').

Didn't manage to get my babe Mercutio in there, though. :C I should have tried harder.

xXx


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